The first period continued with both teams trading chances. The Raiders' best opportunity came midway through when their top line broke out on a two-on-one rush. I watched Saint — the Wolves' goalie — read the play, tracking the puck carrier while staying aware of the pass option. When the shot came, he was already there, glove up, making the save look routine even though it wasn't.
“Good save,” I said, mostly to myself.
“How do you know it was good?” Micah asked. “He just caught it.”
“Because he was already moving to where the puck was going before it got there. That's positioning. That's reading the shooter.” I leaned back in my seat. “A bad goalie reacts to the shot. A good goalie is already there.”
The period ended with the Wolves in the lead, and the energy in the building was electric.
The second period started with the same intensity. Both teams were playing playoff hockey now — harder hits, tighter checking, every puck battle fought like it mattered. Because it did.
The Wolves were cycling in the offensive zone again when I saw it developing. Rook took the puck behind the net, and the Raiders' defense collapsed on him, assuming he'd try to make aplay. But Rook had seen something they hadn't — Cole drifting into the high slot, completely unmarked.
The pass came tape-to-tape, and Cole hammered a one-timer that beat the goalie clean.
Wolves two, Raiders nil.
“THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!” Martin bellowed, and several people in the surrounding seats started laughing.
“Rook's dad is very enthusiastic,” Talia observed.
“He really is,” I agreed, watching Rook skate past the bench and tap gloves with every single player. That was captain shit right there — making sure everyone felt part of the win.
The Raiders pushed back hard after that, and the game got physical. I watched Mace — the Wolves' enforcer — take a run at a Raiders forward who'd been taking liberties with the hits, and the two of them ended up in a shoving match that nearly turned into a full fight before the refs separated them.
“Are they allowed to just hit each other like that?” Poppy asked, sounding somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
“It's hockey,” I said. “Hitting is part of the game. As long as it's clean, it's legal.”
“What counts as clean?”
“Basically, don't hit someone from behind, don't target the head, and don't use your stick as a weapon. Everything else is fair game.”
She stared at the ice with wide eyes. “This sport is insane.”
“Yeah. It's the best.”
Midway through the second period, the Raiders got a power play when Dmitri took a penalty for hooking. The Wolves killed it cleanly, Rook and Cole working together to keep the puck out of the defensive zone as much as possible. I watched Rook read the passing lanes, intercepting a cross-ice feed and chipping it down the ice to burn time.
“That's smart hockey,” I said. “He's not trying to be a hero. Just doing his job and making it hard for them.”
The penalty expired and play went back to even strength. The pace picked up again, both teams pushing for an advantage, and that's when Rook made his move.
He picked off a pass at center ice, the Raiders caught in a bad line change with tired players on the ice. Rook had speed and space, and he used both. He hit the blue line with two defenders backing up, trying to cut off the angle.
I knew what he was going to do before he did it. The slight weight shift, the way he opened his hips — he was going to deke.
He went left, the first defender bit hard, and Rook cut back right so fast it looked like the defender was moving in slow motion. The second defender tried to recover, but Rook was already past him, in alone on the goalie.
The goalie came out to challenge, cutting down the angle, but Rook went high glove side and buried it.
Bar down. Textbook.
The building lost its fucking mind.
I was screaming, Poppy was screaming, Micah was on his feet with his hands over his head, and Talia was laughing at all of us while also screaming. Martin pulled me into a bear hug that lifted me off my feet, and when he set me down I was grinning so hard my face hurt.
“YOUR BOYFRIEND IS REALLY GOOD AT HOCKEY!” Poppy yelled at me.
